


O' Voyagers

by Librabitch



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: Enterprise, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, BAMF James T. Kirk, BAMF Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Bechdel Test Fix, Female Friendship, Feminist Themes, Friendship, Genius James T. Kirk, Hurt/Comfort, Leonard "Bones" McCoy Needs a Hug, Post-Narada, Pre-Star Trek: Into Darkness, Reboot, Slow Burn, Team as Family, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27762967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Librabitch/pseuds/Librabitch
Summary: What happens after Nero’s carnage, but before Khan’s chaos? A look at the aftermath as told by Christine Chapel.Or, as she tells Bones years later, the five hundred days in which the crew of the ship became family.
Relationships: Christine Chapel & Nyota Uhura, Christine Chapel/James T. Kirk, Spock/Nyota Uhura
Comments: 21
Kudos: 45
Collections: Star Trek Friendshipfest, Women of Star Trek





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think. I’d love to hear your comments!

_Stardate 2258.52_

She heard snippets of the conversation: words on crisis public relations, far reaching news interviews, and the need for positive press. The quick, clever, rebuke of the acting Captain, and the quietly murmured affirmations to the illogical proposition by the First Officer.

And the two officers who were alongside her were getting on chummily well for two staged mutinies, and having just marooned and been marooned, respectively.

However, the politics of the Enterprise were so beside the point to her, as she, Nurse M’Benga and Doctor McCoy struggled to keep afloat against the crashing waves of crew and Vulcan elders that needed medical care; she had not kept up with the ever shifting dynamics. All she knew was that the Medical Bay was overwhelmed with patients, and every moment she was in this meeting was another moment that the medical team fell further behind.

Christine Chapel was so tired the ache of her back and feet turned to a dull throb of numbness, an acute contrast to the sharp pangs of the headache coming on. Her stomach churned with anxiousness.

She felt like she ran the risk of emptying the contents of her stomach at absolutely any moment.

She closed her eyes, blocked out the scene before her, and briefly worked through her list of patients to calm the nausea; she decided who needed priority in her rounds as soon as she was dismissed from this ridiculous, absurd, outrageous and egregious waste of her _goddamn _time.__

__She had patients to check-on (one who had been impaled, one with a nasty gash in his forehead from the Narada’s blasts to the ship’s hull and, _of course _, Captain Pike), lab reports to finish up, and if she had a spare moment, comms to send to her mom (if she was even in her right mind to read it)____ ____and Thellan to let them know that she survived Nero’s attacks on Vulcan and the Secondary Fleet, and a godforsaken imploding black hole.___ _

____Christine grit her teeth at having been called here, when she was desperately needed in the Medical Bay._ _ _ _

____She sat alongside acting-Captain Kirk, and Commander Spock, looking at the projected hologram of Star Fleet’s Admiral Marcus. The Captain was looking decidedly haggard aside the serene composure of his First Officer, not that she could judge._ _ _ _

____Christine was certain she looked a frightful, bloodied, and exhausted mess. When the Captain urgently pinged her, she was suturing up an engineer’s forehead, and she hadn’t the time to change into a clean set of blues before reporting to the bridge._ _ _ _

____Here she was with the Secretary of Defense for all of Star Fleet staring her down in this state of disarray; it was just the type of infernal terrible luck Christine was used to._ _ _ _

____“Lieutenant Chapel,” the Admiral Marcus growled, “are we boring you?”_ _ _ _

____Stone-faced, Christine folded her arms behind her back and bit her lip and met the harsh beady eyes of an Admiral who looked on smugly. Too smugly for a man that looked like he slept through the catastrophe, only to wake and badger her now._ _ _ _

____“Answer Lieutenant!” he barked._ _ _ _

____Sleep deprivation was a funny thing, because even though she knew the handbook and code of conduct by heart and he was an Admiral, she could not help herself._ _ _ _

____“While I find your conversations of Star Fleet’s crisis PR strategy absolutely riveting, sir, I would appreciate clarity on why I have been included, rather than the CMO.” She replied with saccharine sweetness.____

____“You are Captain Pike’s physician, correct? The surgeon who oversaw the extraction of the beetle?”_ _ _ _

____“It was a Centurian slug, and yes sir. I was the assisting surgeon on the case.”_ _ _ _

____“Is he awake and recovering? Has his medical status changed?” The Captain gently asked._ _ _ _

____“While I am not at liberty to discuss the specifics without his consent, outside of his next of kin, I feel comfortable saying that I expect a full and robust recovery in time.” She turned to the Captain, now, and hoped that he could read the reassurance on her brow._ _ _ _

____That was the bright spot amidst the darkness and carnage of the last few days._ _ _ _

____During a grueling eighteen-hour surgery, Christine successfully extracted the Centurian Slug without further damage to Captain Pike’s brain stem, to which Doctor McCoy spent the bulk of the time repairing._ _ _ _

____She had full hope that with rehabilitation and rest, the remaining damage could be overcome. That he would walk again._ _ _ _

____“We need the time to be now, Lieutenant. You will clear him for limited active duty.” Admiral Marcus ordered._ _ _ _

____“Frankly, that is ridiculous Admiral. Her and McCoy operated on him through the night. As acting-Captain, I won’t abide.”_ _ _ _

____“I agree with the captain, that is highly illogical, sir.”_ _ _ _

____Christine stared down at her hands, which were still stained by blood, despite her best efforts to scrub it off. Blood she had felt pulse at the source. Blood she tried to stymie before her patient bled out on her table. The taste of metal hit the back of her throat. Tangy. Sour. Bitter._ _ _ _

____Her vision swayed._ _ _ _

____“I will not, Admiral.” Christine replied. Her head was swimming and it felt like she had just been bludgeoned. She struggled to hear anything over the desperate thump of her heartbeat in her ears._ _ _ _

____She had been hoping that it would still be ok. Not as it was before all this, but that everything would go back to some sort of semblance of “normal.” But when she stared back at the harsh and demanding glare of Admiral Marcus…_ _ _ _

____But somehow, her best wasn’t good enough. Someone, despite all her efforts, still managed to lose._ _ _ _

____“If Captain Pike were to disturb his recovery, he wouldn’t just set himself back, sir. He wouldn’t just undo the repairs. He could lose his chance to walk, again, sir. I cannot in good conscience or medical practice clear him.”_ _ _ _

____Seven years training for her dream of being a doctor on a star ship. She was going to finish her surgical fellowship underneath a ship’s CMO on the Enterprise's maiden voyage._ _ _ _

____It wasn’t supposed to happen like this._ _ _ _

____“This is not a suggestion, Doctor, but an order. Under penalty of court martial if you refuse, you will clear Pike. He just needs to make a few public appearances and oversee the return of the Enterprise to HQ, then he can sleep it off.”_ _ _ _

____“Alright.” She said quietly. Seven years and a lifetime of dreaming turned to dust she choked on._ _ _ _

____“Excellent, Lieutenant-” the weathered lines of Admiral Marcus’s face turned upwards into a triumphant smirk._ _ _ _

____She turned to the gaping Captain, and listed off her medical officer identification code and license number._ _ _ _

____“For the court martial, sir.”_ _ _ _


	2. Chapter 2

_Doctor Chapel’s Log: Stardate 2258.62 _  
__________

____ _ _

____With the jettisoning of the ship’s core, we are eight days into the return voyage to Star Fleet HQ and facing significant delays in returning._ _ _ _

____For this, I am grateful._ _ _ _

____Had we been able to warp and return immediately to HQ, I would face the immediate repurcussions of my inaction. With the extended time of the return voyage expected to stretch over the next nineteen days, I have found an unlikely ally and staunch advocate in Chief Medical Officer Doctor McCoy. He has refused all calls quite colorfully, even ones made directly to his personal Comms Link, to remove me from service or rounds._ _ _ _

____The Medical Bay is short-staffed and overwhelmed as it is. Two of our comrades, Nurse Lieutenant Zh'shrisrath, and Medical Technician Ensign Blythe were killed in Nero’s initial onslaught. May they rest in power._ _ _ _

____I want to continue to do my job to the best of my ability, for as long as possible, regardless of my fate upon our return._ _ _ _

____I have a sinking suspicion that Doctor McCoy feels guilty for the fact that he sent me when the Captain pinged, rather than answer the Comms himself. I don’t fault him whatsoever._ _ _ _

____The only emotions I’d like to convey to him and to M’Benga would be gratitude for their tireless work, competence, camaraderie and support._ _ _ _

____Doctor McCoy has assured me that I should not worry about the court martial. That the full might of the acting-Captain, James Kirk, is working politically behind the scenes to dismiss the filing. McCoy has implied that Kirk is well versed with incurring the wrath of the top brass and has full confidence in the Captain’s ability to placate them._ _ _ _

____It’s unclear to me what until-a-week-ago-Cadet-turned-acting-Captain Kirk has the capacity to do with respect to this issue. I remain entirely unconvinced that I won’t be stripped of my titles and position upon my first steps back into the Academy._ _ _ _

____I feel reassured, however, that I made the correct medical call and have Doctor McCoy’s full and unequivocal backing, alongside those of the Captain and First Officer._ _ _ _

____I really hope I haven’t mucked this up already. I believe that if McCoy retains his position whenever the Enterprise is fully operational after repairs, then I would benefit from being under his service._ _ _ _

____Our patients are, physically, on the mend. Captain Pike shall remain in his medically induced coma, for another few days. But his condition is progressively improving each day. I’ve already interfaced with the occupational therapists back at HQ who will oversee his rehab. I grow more hopeful with each passing day._ _ _ _

____And thankfully, M’Benga and I have cleared six of our patients to be downgraded from intensive care supervision to the regular wing of the Bay._ _ _ _

____But I deeply worry about everyone’s psycho-emotional states. Particularly, our youngest crew members and the Vulcan who boarded the ship in flight from their planet’s destruction._ _ _ _

____M’Benga, McCoy and I will meet tomorrow morning to discuss how we can better address the mental health of everyone onboard._ _ _ _

____Chapel out._ _ _ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your comments below! Especially since this is my first time attempting to write a narrativ!

_Stardate 2258.69_

If there was one thing that he believed from the bitterness of his divorce and the cruelty of the disintegration of his marriage, then it was that he had a nasty temper. He knew it in the deep hollow of his heart.

He knew it when he snapped at Doctor Chapel that morning.

She made coffee for him and Nurse M’Benga, a small act of kindness; and McCoy felt a vice grip squeeze his stomach at the sight of her offering him a mug. 

_As if he couldn’t get himself coffee. As if he was incapable of taking care of himself._

When he refused it, and snipped that she should focus on the patients and not her colleagues, he watched her lips pulled from a shy smile into a taut colorless line. 

She twisted her red hair into a bun so tight atop of her head that McCoy worried it would cause a headache, and avoided him the rest of the morning in the Bay. 

He couldn’t apologize, even as much as he wanted to. 

If he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. It would pour out of him in chest-heaving sobs. And now was not the time to lose his weakened grasp on his composure. Not with the immeasurable weight and responsibility crushing his chest. The whole ship was depending on his ability to rationally, and methodically, deliver medicine. He was the CMO, goddamnit.

He was on a flying deathtrap surrounded by freakishly intelligent _kids._ Cadets who were closer to Joanna’s age than his, and he was watching them die front and center. Over and over and over again. 

Add weeks unexpectedly trapped in a hulking ship in space, _a place that he hated_ , being unable to talk to his little girl, living his days and nights in the brutally understaffed Medical Bay, with dozens of critical patients, and two of the crew that he was now responsible for. 

McCoy felt, for the first time in years, the hapless fool that boarded a shuttle to a goddamn space Academy, to be a goddamn space cadet, suffering severe astrophobia, to escape his failings as a husband, and his failed marriage. 

He felt helpless. 

McCoy threw down his PADD in frustration with the medical recording software, and tugged at his mess of hair. If Jim could see him now, he would tell him he was sulking. McCoy could imagine the cheek he’d get. _You’re mopping and being a moody shit, like always, Bones. Apologize to the pretty doctor, or I will on your behalf._

McCoy hadn’t seen Doctor Chapel since the morning, as he had hidden out of the back office writing up his labs. He hadn’t seen Jim either.

He avoided Jim after the destruction of Narada, left Jim’s messages unanswered, and declined invitations to chess or to drink Pike’s good whiskey, which Jim had let him know in an excited voice memo, where kept in the Captain’s quarters. 

It was too much. Every time McCoy saw Jim’s face it was like someone was squeezing his throat and chest.

How many times had Jim almost died over the last month? And, had he listened to McCoy’s medical advice of bedrest and an off-duty designation? Of course not. 

Guilt and anguish were eating McCoy alive. 

The horror for his part in bringing Jim onto the ship. For not being able to keep Commander Spock from marooning him to a hostile planet. For watching his best friend get the shit beat out of him by the Commander because of Jim’s insufferably stupid, arrogant plan. For not being able to stop Jim from his worst, self-destructive habits. For not answering Jim’s ping from the bastard, Marcus. From watching the young-copper haired doctor sob onto Nurse M’Benga’s shoulder when she returned from the meeting, and he was unable to offer her comfort. Not being able to do anything, really, because being acting-CMO meant fuck-all apparently to remedy the situation even though he knew, he _knew,_ she made the correct medical call but the wrong one politically.

McCoy felt shallow and cracked. But he had to try. _I can apologize. I know I can. Start with the small one for Doctor Chapel and then let’s try with Jimbo._

It took hours to finally work up the motivation to leave the dreadfully uncomfortable rock of an office chair, but he was putting on his best facade of personal-fortitude.

Which was why McCoy felt the expanse of the Bay closing in as he turned and saw Jim chittering away with a laid-up ensign Pavel Chekov. The ensign was having his ankle deftly wrapped by frowning Doctor Chapel.

McCoy caught the expectant, questioning blue eyes of his best friend, _his brother,_ who was always too aware and too knowledgeable, _damn him_. McCoy felt trapped and seen. Like a wild thing cornered in on all sides. 

Because Jim was really astounding at his bumbling Iowan bit and it couldn’t be further from the truth. Jim was absolutely anything but the village idiot. McCoy bet the lint in his pocket that Jim already knew everything, every insecurity and mistake that he had wrought today, this week, month, just like he always did.

Hadn’t McCoy been clear enough? 

Leonard McCoy needed, ironically, space.

Which was why seeing Jim, there and then, made Leonard see red. Made him lose all semblance of composure and collectedness.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I said that this is from Christine's perspective, but this chapter was inescapable, so we have an aside from Bones.
> 
> Also, the lovable, gruff, doctor we know and cherish is here, do not let the whumpage of this chapter fool you. He is just, as is everyone else, sorting through the trauma of what transpired.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to every person who left a kudos, comment or bookmarked this work. I appreciate you more than I can write here. And it, honestly, helped me get this chapter out quicker than I expected.
> 
> The comments especially help me overcome my nervousness with posting my writing!
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think about this chapter, below. Christine is going to start to interact with the rest of the ensemble more as we progress.

_Stardate 2258.69_

After the mortification from the morning, Christine decided that the best strategy was to circulate, circulate, circulate. To keep moving - like those long-extinct sharks of Earth - around the Bay until her shift winded down in a few hours. She would not dwell on the absolute gut-wrenching embarrassment ( _maybe an overreaction)_ she felt from Doctor McCoy this morning, or the way her blood curdled ( _decidedly not an overreaction_ ) at her imminent court trial.

Christine shook her head at the patient before her, “Sorry Mr. Chekov, forgive me.” She had been lost in her thoughts and gripped her tricorder with white knuckles, its ridges dug into the skin of her palm. She continued to gently examine his left ankle. The readings on her tricorder showed the bone structurally was intact, but that the ligaments around the ankle had been strained, just as she suspected.

“Thankfully your ankle is not broken. It’s a sprain. Do you know what you were doing when you rolled your ankle?”

“I was running to check zhe quantum processor,” the ensign sniffled, and hid his face behind mop of curly chestnut hair, “and must’ve rolled my ankle zhen.”

He looked so young then, as he sat on the biobed cot. Seventeen years old made Pavel Chekov one of the youngest aboard the _Enterprise,_ by Christine’s estimation. Probably one of the youngest to ever successfully become an ensign. 

She couldn’t even imagine enduring this as a teenager. And so warmth surged in her chest for him. Christine had been seventeen when she entered the Academy’s accelerated dual program of undergraduate and medical school. Her biggest concern at seventeen was whether she would fail her Intermediate Vulcan and Computer Science classes her first year as a Cadet, or whether her Andorian roommate hated her, Thellan. 

Not this level of catastrophe.

_Fuck._

Her Academy friends. Her coworkers in the Fleet hospital who had all been summoned to active-duty like she had.

How had she _not_ thought about them? How fucked up was that? She hadn’t had the _time_. She felt like she was constantly trying to survive each day. She had not checked internal obituaries for survivors. Had avoided them, actually. Because more news was bad news. And she need to get through the day. 

One day and another. Until this nightmare is done.

And grief stung her eyes for her friends. For Mr. Chekov. For the older Vulcans in the Bay who have been unresponsive since Vulcan’s destruction, which Jabilo informed both her and Doctor McCoy was an appropriate reaction to the breaking of their familial bonds.

Christine blinked back the tears. Blinked until the sting went away, even when the underlying hurt did not. This was not the time. She could fall apart in three days, in her own bed, when they _finally_ made it back to Earth.

“The hallway corners _are_ really sharp around the Engineering deck,” Christine replied kindly refocusing on the ensign in front of her, and weighed his treatment options.

“Can you fix zhis?” He asked. “I need to get back to zhe Bridge, I promised zhe Keptin that I would be back by now. And that I would help Mr. Scott with zhe final docking trajectories.”

“Unfortunately, there isn’t anything to fix Mr. Chekov, at least not by me. This injury is something that takes some time to remedy. I’d recommend icing, wrapping your ankle which I can start to do now, and staying off your feet, preferably with your ankle elevated so that the swelling goes down.”

The ensign cursed in Russian. “Doctor, I can’t stay off my feet. The Keptin said all hands on zhe deck. Zhe deck is not on a biobed in zhe Sick Bay.”

“I’m sure that the Captain would allow for you to conference in from your quarters or from the Bay.”

“The Keptin could not have said what he did, if that was the case.”

“I’m happy to speak with Captain Kirk and advocate for you, if that would be helpful, with my recommendations.” She said firmly, ready to type out a stern message to the Captain.

“Doctor,” Chekov turned paler than the sheet lining the cot, and with shaking hands he stayed her hands. “I don’t want to be zhe stupid kid who is kicked off the Bridge because of _running_ in the _hallways._ They already think that I am too young to do my job. _Please._ I don’t want to prove them _right.”_

Christine bristled at that. Her anger from the ensign's naysayers gnarled an ugly knot in her chest. “The Captain isn’t...Mr. Chekov, I’m recommending-”

“-The Captain isn’t what...exactly?” And in he sauntered, looking concerned. Instantly, the quiet hum of the Bay stuttered to a buzz, and the interest of the room seemed to zero in on him, the man who saved the ship. Earth's hero.

Her first meeting with the Captain had been abysmal, with her bleary-eyed insubordination. But now, she was more aware.

Annoying, really, for someone to have gone through all that he had, and be able to stride over looking like _that_. Put together, composed and self-assured. How was his hair wind-swept on a star ship, where there was no wind?

He was grinning at her, and she couldn't help but shrink away from the sunniness of it. 

“How is he doing Doctor Chapel?” Kirk questioned. “We were worried, Pavel.”

“I’m fine, Keptin-sir,” Chekov interjected. “Ready to get back to it, sir.”

Christine pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Mr. Chekov has a sprained ankle, sir.” She shot a stern look at the ensign, hoping to convey her seriousness, “and we were discussing that if, _and only if,_ he is able to strictly stay off his feet, ice and elevate his ankle, would I keep him on active duty.”

“Zhank you doctor, of course, zhank you” Chekov was shaking her hand so excitedly, she thought he would pull it right out of the socket. 

She turned to the Captain, and stuck a finger to emphasize her points. For some reason he was looking over her shoulder, and she wanted to be clear. 

“He is not to be asked to go to the Engineering deck, or to run whatever errands Mr. Scott was requesting from him. His ankle can’t bear his weight without hurting, so no extended periods of standing either. Not until I clear him.”

“Are you giving me orders, Doctor?” Kirk asked cheerfully. His eyes were dancing as he glanced back over at her.

 _Her impertinence,_ how mortifying _._ Christine snatched her hands back, and folded them in her lap. 

“Sir, I didn’t mean-”

“As the doctor orders, right Pavel?” Kirk smirked at her, and then ruffled the ensign’s hair. 

With a lower tone, Kirk bit out, “And there’s my favorite grumpy bastard.”

Christine thought that the CMO and the Captain were close. Brothers, or even partners, by the way Doctor McCoy grieved the Captain’s temporary marooning. And the foul mood she found in him, as Kirk hurt Captain Pike's rescue. But the way they regarded each other now, Christine wasn’t sure that was the case.

But really, what would they do. Brawl? 

No. From the way both had their trigger fingers by their phasers, it looked like they were going to stun each other.

This would not do, Christine decided. In no way was a shootout going to happen in her damn Bay. Not during her shift, not under her watch. Especially, not today.

“Doctor McCoy,” she tittered, trying to appeal to the hints chivalrousness she had noticed in the surly doctor, “I didn’t know you were still in the back office, but since you’re here, would you mind taking a look at my dosing equations for T’pela? I would appreciate a second a set of eyes.”

Neither man turned towards her. _Did they even hear her?_ But she rambled on, “Captain, would you be able to take a look at our replicator? We need ice for Mr. Chekov’s foot, and Doctor McCoy has mentioned that your handsy--sorry sir, handy. Doctor McCoy said you are handy with broken replicators. And we could really use a hand, since Engineering is so overwhelmed.”

“Now, sirs,” she prompted more forcefully, when they were still eyes each other wearily. "Please."

It was only after both men turned to her respective asks, that she was able to take a fortifying breath of relief.

“Zhat was skillful, Doctor.” The ensign was grinning now, at her, looking awfully impressed. 

“That was a mess, Mr. Chekov.” She shook her head at the absurdity of this ship.

“Not as bad as when zhe Keptin had Doctor McCoy sit through his second failing of the Kobyashi Maru. I heard zhey actually fought in the library after that.” He whispered back.

“But everyone fails that test?” Christine asked incredulously. “That’s hardly a surprise, isn’t it?

“Not the Keptin, Doctor.” Mr. Chekov huffed out a laugh.

Christine curiously eyed him, “Would you tell me that story, while I wrap your ankle?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays my friends!
> 
> Sorry about the tech issues with this one! And, I wanted to warmly thank every person who left a kudos, comment or bookmarked this work. I especially love getting to chat with folks in the comments, so drop a line!
> 
> Reposting this chapter to include the correct Trekkie terms. Shoutout to kalima for catching!
> 
> TW: description of a panic attack is included in this chapter.

Stardate 2258.72

In six hours the Enterprise would conclude her maiden voyage, and begin reentry into Earth’s atmosphere. From the viewing deck in the Bay, Nyota Uhura saw the distant dot of Earth. Of her home planet: the azure blues of the expansive oceans, the greens, grays, browns and reds of the vast ecosystems, white-caps of snow-capped mountains. Earth’s brilliant colors were visions of whimsical smatterings against the darkness of space.

In the corner of her eye, she saw the unmistakable outline of the Serengenti, imagined the sights, sounds and smells of her home, Dar es Salaam.

Home.

San Francisco was home,  _ too _ , and had been for four years. But a San Francisco without Gaila was unimaginable. Her  _ friend.  _ Her goofy, sweet, unashamedly herself, brilliant best friend. __

How could Uhura stomach going back to their shared quarters, with the knowledge that she, Nyota, survived but Gaila had not? That Jim Kirk, of all people, saved this ship, but not Vulcan. Not the secondary fleet. Not their classmates, or professors.

Uhura survived, but so many of her classmates did not; and she felt the guilt of it latch onto every moment, and every thought from the damning of the Nero onwards. 

In a few hours, this misbegotten voyage would conclude. Just like her relationship.

_ It is logical to part ways once we dock,  _ he said with a serene face, when she intercepted him in the turbo-lift at the end of the final Alpha shift of the voyage. It was a simple statement that petrified Uhura where she stood. 

That’s all he had to say for nearly two years of being together? 

It made her feel like she was sinking into the floor of the turbo-lift, despite knowing that the lift was propelling upwards. 

In her hand was Spock’s favorite nutrition bar from the Mess; she knew that he hadn’t a chance to eat between his double shifts. Blueberry-and-lemon flavored. He once told her it reminded him of summers with his mother in Michigan. 

This Spock looked on untroubled, and when she met his eyes they were cold.

Where was the warmth that he had shown her last night, when she held him in her bed, and every night before? What had changed from the night before, when he whispered affirmations into her skin? Twisted his hands into her hair, and cradled his forehead to hers. He never said the words, but he, even in the height of his despair and the depth of the catastrophe, made her feel seen and cherished. 

Now, his eyes saw through her, devoid of the sharp glint of cleverness or a softer humor she expected. Fiery anger curdled inside her. 

Nyota felt used.

Vulcans do not lie, Uhura knew; but she felt deceived. 

She wanted to rage against him, to question and cry out against it. But she knew that sort of emotional outburst would cause him discomfort, and wouldn't resolve anything. From the set of his eyebrows, this was a matter that was already decided. 

So she nodded at it, murmured an  _ as you wish,  _ and left the nutrition bar on the side-railing in the turbo-lift. She fled the next time the turbo-lift doors opened, barely aware that she had gotten off at Deck 3.

Who could she even confide in, now? Jim Kirk’s nosiness aside, the only person who knew about them,  _ really knew, _ was Gaila. All of her Academy friends, from the long-range student COMMS lab or her classes, were placed on the  _ Farragut  _ or the  _ Ulysses _ . And there had yet to be any found survivors.

Uhura felt untethered, adrift and was entirely alone.

It wasn’t until Uhura was sure the turbo-lift continued onto the next level, that she stumbled down the hall into the first open room and she doubled over. Uhura  leaned against the wall once she felt far enough away.

She felt like she was dying. The lieutenant couldn’t breath when she inhaled. It hurt  _ everywhere _ . Black dots danced across her vision. 

What was happening? Uhura wondered as the room faded to dimness. 

“Hey,” Uhura felt rather than saw two hands bookend her elbows. “Are you hurt?” The voice sounded warbled, distant and unfamiliar. She clawed at her throat because the words weren’t coming out. Fluent in eighteen Federation languages, but she was unable to choke out simple Standard.

Faintly, Uhura heard the beep of a tricorder taking a reading.

“I know it’s really scary,” the voice said gentler than before, “but you’re having a panic attack. I need you to try and slow your breathing. Mirror mine if you can.” Slowly, so slowly, Uhura pulled out of it. She felt bamboozled and disoriented.

Uhura came to awareness, and immediately tried to stand on wombling legs. Her vision was no longer speckled with dots, and when she peered around she was in a nearly bereft medical supply closet, with scribbled code on the walls.

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” the voice said. Uhura turned to see a red-head in medical blues pulling up a chair. “Sit. I’m Doctor Christine Chapel. I’m messaging M’benga to bring over a biobed, so we can pass through the Med Bay and run some scans.”

“I’m fine. Totally fine. Absolutely no reason to go to the Medical Bay. Do not call a bed.” Uhura huffed to the doctor. The sheer horror from what Spock would think had Uhura ready to bolt from the room. And Leonard McCoy, he would take one look at her and  _ know.  _

“I have to insist,” Chapel said firmly. Nyota glared at that.

At least she would not have to worry about Spock spreading their personal business around the ship, but if McCoy knew, then Kirk would certainly find out. Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her chest, if Kirk knew, then Uhura wondered if he’d blast it in the intercom just because he  _ could _ . 

Acting-Captain her ass, Jim Kirk proved in the years she knew him that he was arrogant, disrespectful of authority and procedure, decidedly lacking in empathy, and woefully undeserving of the chair he strategically absconded. 

When her dizziness finally subsided, with clearer eyes, Uhura scanned over the string of what looked like an older programming language. “Why are you coding in an empty supply closet?”

Christine offered a brittle smile, “I’m trying to science my way out of a problem.”

“And how’s that going for you?” Uhura said. She tilted her head and perused the string of variables, already noticing a problem. Uhura still felt fuzzy, but at the periphery of her thoughts there was the briefest moment of clarity.

The doctor sighed, “Evidently, not well. Reminds me of the nightmarish semester I took computer science as a first-year, and that I’m shit at coding”

“Why are you trying to search Star Fleet’s legal archive for ‘insubordination’ case law? Court martial procedure…?’”

The doctor pinked at that. If mortification could be captured as a single image it would be her face. 

“I’ve gotten myself into a bit of good trouble. And I’m drowning in the utter nonsense of these cases. I’ve been trying to figure out the type of beast I am dealing with and there are thousands of case files, all  _ dreadfully  _ boring. Medicine is supposed to be the most independent of the branches, we are  _ supposed _ to report directly to Admiral Sato and Star Fleet Medical’s board, when there are problems. But the Admiral isn’t reachable right now. Do you know how difficult it is to read this drivel for two hour stints on replicated coffee, and no sleep knowing  _ damn _ well that there are more important things I could be doing in the Bay.”

Chapel snapped her mouth closed and turned a shade redder than before. The doctor hid her behind the palms of her hands.

Uhura’s mouth popped open in surprise. “You were the one who defied Admiral Marcus? Kirk has been suspiciously tight-lipped about what happened. We all thought it was Leonard!”

Chapel peeked through her fingers, “Not that suspicious. From what I’ve read, a captain and first officer can’t publicly comment on an ongoing investigation or trial, even absurd or inappropriate ones.”

Uhura snorted, “I have never heard of a rule that Kirk hasn’t skirted around, bent or outright broken.”

“I seem to be in luck, then.” The doctor rebuked.

“You’re missing a forward slash in the second line, and forgot to close out the command in the eleventh.” Uhura pivoted to the doctor much to Chapel’s surprise. “Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, in Comms. The Academy forces us to take a few semesters of computer science, too. I was quite good at it.”

\--

Chapel pulled out her PADD and modified her code, and then shook her head. “No luck, Lieutenant.”

Christine happily let the Lieutenant inspect her work, and felt the full surge of exhaustion hit her. She felt like one of those ancient-Terran spinning tops, that was whirling out of control.

When the message came in during Christine’s extended fourteen-hour shift, she was bamboozled. She had four days to prepare a defense against the Admiral’s accusation of insubordination. 

It was like there was a timed-bomb strapped to her chest that was invisible to everyone else but her. Every breath was punctuated with a heavy jolt of anxiety and worry.

From what Christine read so far, the consequences of failing to defend her actions ranged from a two-year grounding  _ (horrible) _ to a worst case scenario of a dishonorable discharge  _ (life-altering in its fallout) _ .

Christine was sick at the thought.

When she asked Doctor McCoy for a three-hour respite ahead of the Enterprise’s docking sequence, the first in their five weeks of working together, he granted it with a face etched in concern.

Christine noticed that McCoy was much quieter around her than he had been before the morning of the coffee incident. She wanted to bridge the gap, to return to their easy dynamic and shrug off the caustic tension that seeped into their interactions since, but she wasn’t sure how. She lacked the energy to figure out what to say.

She wasn’t sure how to ask McCoy about the court martial either, and so there she was in the emptied-out medical supply closet frantically trying to manufacture a miracle.

“I’m not sure why this isn’t working,” Uhura frowned at the error message being projected onto the wall. The Lieutenant continued to modify and rework the code to no avail, and with each failure the edges of her mouth pulled further and further downward.

“What’s our plan?” Uhura turned to her suddenly.

“Excuse me?

“Once we get this to work, what’s the plan? Uhura repeated. 

“Oh,” Chapel stuttered; she felt dizzy with gratitude and weariness. “I was planning to use the algorithm to find the most relevant and helpful cases, and then build my defense around what has worked.”

“That’s clever. Hopefully, we can get this dismissed, so you don’t even have to present a defense, but we’ll prepare one in case. And an offense, too, obviously.”

“We?”

Uhura continued on without pause, “Sulu or Chekov will know how to fix our algorithm. They’re the best computer scientists aboard. And I, could use a, uh, distraction. If you’ll have me. Beta-shift, the Captain and XO are overseeing the landing.”

The doctor felt a chill pass over her, and remembered the nasty smugness of Admiral Marcus, as he threatened her with consequences. Christine was worried she was already dead in the water,  _ who would believe her against an Admiral’s?  _

She refused to drag down the Lieutenant with her.

Chapel thought back to the distress that Uhura had been an hour ago, and wondered at what caused it. Wondered how to best support her if she wouldn’t go to the Medical Bay to get checked out. Concern lashed at the doctor’s chest. 

“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble by association with me in this,” Chapel said weakly. “I don’t want the Admiral to go after you or anyone else. Or implicate you.”

The COMMs officer stilled at her face, her face grimaced. “That’s not really how it works. Plus, Marcus’s allegation is morally and ethically wrong. It’s against Star Fleet regulation. It’s an egregious overstep, and an affront to you as a doctor. Not to mention if this goes through, the admiralty will have an unprecedented oversight to the medical arm.” 

Uhura’s lips pulled into a sharp smile, “With all of this eclipsing the end of the semester, the Academy’s mock trial tournament is probably cancelled. And, I’m rearing for a good fight.” 

Christine saw the anger she was too tired to express being refracted back at her in Uhura’s warm, brown eyes. 

“You’re on the mock-trial team?”

“We were best in the universe.” The grin turned biting, “We even beat the Vulcans out last year.”

Christine startled, she  _ had  _ heard about that. To beat out the Vulcans at a game of argumentation was impressive. And intimidating.

_ This is unreal,  _ Christine thought,  _ maybe my rotten luck is, finally, turning.  _ The doctor felt the weight pressing down on her chest slightly lift, her breath came momentarily easier.

“We won’t have much time, the trial is in a few days,” Christine cautioned.

Uhura waved that off with one hand while she tapped at her PADD with the other, “I’ve done more with less.”

“I’d have to step away in two hours to finalize the patients’ transfers and to send over their medical records to the hospitals they are being transferred to.”

“That’s fine.” Uhura offered without looking up from her screen. “Sulu said he’s on Deck Five’s Botany Bay, and Chekov’s with him. We should go find them.”

“I want to make a pitstop at the Medical Bay, to pick up my full-range tricorder.” Uhura looked up at this, questioning.

Christine sighed, “If you won’t let me admit you, at least let me give you a fuller check-up.”

Uhura rolled her eyes, “I’m fine. But if it’s that important to you, then fine.”

Chapel nodded, acquiescing to the Lieutenant's plan. “Let’s start, then.”

It was only after they had already moved to the turbo-lift that Christine reflected on the strange lightness she felt. She realized that it was was a soft, gentle flutter of a thing resembling hope. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say that I LOVED the dynamic of Uhura/Spock in the new films, I LOVE the idea of an Academy-era romance between the two of them, and I definitely loved the new iteration of Uhura. Where the films lacked POC and a happy variety of women, she is a triumph. Brilliant, a team-player, compassionate and beautiful. And I wish we saw more of her outside of her interactions with Spock. And more of their relationship in general.
> 
> That being said, in the 2009 film, I never understood the final clip we see of Spock and Uhura is her smiling at him when he takes the XO position. When we just learned Spock planned to leave Star Fleet to go to New Vulcan and presumably leave her. How did the relationship make that jump? I want to explore and examine that here.
> 
> I want to write women and femme characters who are fully-realized, complex and supportive of other women and femmes. The friendship between Christine and Nyota in TOS was iconic, and a glaring hole in the new films. Something I will rectify in this story.
> 
> Next up is the waited for trial, and the gang working together to outsmart a certain admiral.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! It's been a tough few months at work, but I am BACK!
> 
> Big thanks to every person who left a kudos, comment or bookmarked this work, especially during the roughness of the last few months. I appreciate you. I can’t tell you how much it means to me when people engage with my writing. Maybe we could get to 20 comments! 😝
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think about this chapter! I love interacting with commenters, hearing particular scenes you'd like to see and constructive criticism. 
> 
> Second to last chapter before we are back in space.

**Stardate 2258.75**

Iowa, _again_.

Here, they were surrounded by cornfields and the sharp cerulean blue of a clear heartland sky. Narada felt like a barely passed nightmare. The insanity and terror of the Catastrophe abated, momentarily, with each breath in of Earth and her unmistakable, nostalgic smell.

Coming home felt heartbreakingly simple. But, Christine wondered, would she ever be able to return to the person she was six weeks ago. 

Three meters passed the holding pen for the soon-to-be disembarked crew finalizing their itineraries, Christine saw lines forming for transports. Orderly queues of exhausted staff. One by one, they boarded their respective shuttles. 

It felt unsettling seeing the throngs of red shirts, crew and officers alike all together for the first time since they all boarded. Christine scanned the crowd and noticed patients that she had helped in the Bay. They looked ragged, but on the mend.

And she was grateful

Star Fleet had yet to announce the casualty count from the Catastrophe, but from the internal message boards whole years and departments had been nearly wiped out. Thousands of young officers, crew and Cadets died. It was mind numbing in its devastation.

A vice gripped Christine’s heart, as she knew that a mere six weeks ago there were nearly thrice as many staff on this ship. Six weeks ago the full magnificence of Vulcan still existed as a place that Christine had dreamed of visiting, as did the secondary Fleet and years of Cadet and young officers. 

Six weeks ago, Christine felt infinitely hopeful. She had finally been on the ship that she had been working towards for as long as she could remember.

“Final destination?” A cheerful automated voice called out to Christine and Uhura. The screen was glaringly neon green and happily blinking up at the two of them keenly unaware of its current audience’s mood, much to Christine’s utter disdain.

The Enterprise's system was mapping the most efficient route for each shuttle to support the crew’s disembarkment.

To her left, Lieutenant Uhura bolted ramrod straight at the bot’s request. 

Uhura looked grey-faced, and Christine worried that she would be sick at the question. The Lieutenant opened her mouth, just to close it again.

“Whatever the temporary accommodations are for the evacuated dorms.” Uhura said quietly, folding her arms across her chest and shrinking inwards. Christine noticed the slightest tremble of the Black woman’s chin.

“You can stay with me if you want.” The doctor offered just as quietly. “My mom’s house has plenty of space and she’s not using it right now.”

Brown eyes shrewdly peered over to her, “Don’t offer that expecting me to turn it down.”

Christine countered, “it’s not in San Francisco, if you need quick access to HQ. It’ll be a longer shuttle ride and probably a bit dusty.”

At that, the Lieutenant rolled her eyes. “Because those things will _really_ be the worst thing to happen to me.” She quipped. Christine noted that with the return of Uhura’s sarcasm, her eyes livened up. It felt good, proper and right to get snarked at by Uhura even from the brevity of their partnership. It was familiar and comforting.

“Can I come?” Ensign Chekov was close enough to hear the exchange. “Sulu and I are currently being relocated and zhey want to send me back to my Babushka’s because I am a _minor.”_

Chekov snarled. _“_ Sulu cannot sign my release forms because zhis ridiculous algorithm won’t let him since they’ve evacuated our dorm room and he doesn’t have a permanent non-dorm address. He’s trying to talk with zhe Commander.”

“Mister Chekov, please be careful with your ankle.” Christine said firmly, with a hint of a sigh.

Chekov turned frantically between the two women. “Wherever you two are going, can I come? Or can you let me pretend to come and I’ll rendezvous with Sulu. I cannot go back home. I _cannot._ ”

Icy understanding pierced her to the core. Christine knew Chekov’s face, and had worn a mirror of it herself for many years. She understood desperately trying to avoiding home.

In another life, before the Catastrophe, the idea of letting work acquaintances crash at her mother’s house would have been unthinkable, too familiar and too close. Now it would be absurd to not offer it.

After the nightmare of the Catastrophe, the banality of returning and its unsettling minutia felt insignificant. Her mom’s house had plenty of space, more of it than she would know what to do with. 

These six-week, _surviving,_ bound them together, Christine realized; she felt that, too, in her core. And this was something she could do. She felt grateful that this was one crisis she could single-handedly help avert.

“As long as you don’t mind distance and dust, and if Uhura is ok with it you _and_ Sulu are more than welcome. I’m sure that HQ is strapped trying to place everyone, right now.”

* * *

Two days later the good doctor was able to spit out the question that she had been swallowing. 

“Why are you all helping me?” Christine asked.

“Other than you letting us crash here, for free?” Sulu grinned up at her, before peering back down at the motion he was proofreading. 

Christine did not understand it. Past hurts had frozen her walls so high, that in the eight years of Star Fleet, only her first year Andorrian roommate, Thellan, managed to scale them in an honest, real way.

She barely knew Lieutenants Sulu and Uhura, and Ensign Chekov and yet they dedicated their remaining hours on the Enterprise to preparing strategies for her court appearance.

Even when she stepped away to help Doctor McCoy finalize the transfers of their remaining patients ahead of the general transports for the crew, Uhura, Sulu and Chekov toiled on in her absence. 

And, here they are, in her kitchen, _for her_ as they had been the past two nights _._ Even when she insisted that they did not need to “earn their keep” as Sulu dryly stated.

It was surreal to see her Enterprise crewmates, making themselves at home at her kitchen table, in her childhood house, a place that had been devoid of life and warmth for years. Sulu and Uhura were arguing about whether she should wear her grey officer’s uniform, or her starched doctor's whites. 

Chekov was humming and stirring his pot of borscht, which he made for their dinner. Deeply unhappy with the group’s exposure to Russian cuisine, the ensign proudly made his babuska’s recipes.

Christine worried about him standing for prolonged stints on his ankle, to which the ensign enthusiastically waved her off. _I’m fine and you are off duty, Doctor,_ he enthusiastically reminded her. 

“Why are you letting us stay here, in your amazing analog forest house?” Sulu countered sweeping his hand around.

“Thank you, but this isn’t my--” Christine shook her head and thought better of explaining the messiness that is her mother. 

The doctor then shrugged, “when the Academy evacuated the dorms because of the security risks I figured that this would be more comfortable than wherever they would send you all. And, I have the space.” _I could use the company,_ she left unsaid. 

“And zhis is, Doctor. Spasibo. I’ve never been to Oregon before or in a strictly analog house. It’s so fantastic and syroy...what’s zhe word in Standard.” Chekov hummed in while simultaneously stirring the pot with one hand and plating the stew with another.

“Green?” Uhura supplied. 

“Green and lush!” Chekov confirmed.

“Uhura, do you always answer a question with a question?” Christine ribbed softly, turning her eyes back onto the Lieutenant. 

“Maybe?” The communications officer responded, the corner of her lips turning upwards in a gossamer smile. “I get Socratic when tired.”

“You’re one of us, Doctor Chapel,” Sulu cut in firmly. His voice was steady and solid. “We don’t leave our people behind. Not on death drills and not with vindictive megalomaniac admirals.” 

“And, this house is super cool.” Chekov seriousness offset the cheek of Sulu’s grin.

“I didn’t even think they allowed analog homes anymore,” Sulu pondered, “AI systems are usually built into the structural integrity of the building. I’d be interested to see the blueprints for the house.”

Hikaru Sulu was unlike any pilot she had met. In her experience, command-track Cadets ( _especially_ star ship pilots) were bombastic, arrogant, lacking in self-awareness. But Sulu was the best pilot she had ever met, with his quiet sharpness, and unyielding empathy and patience. 

He was damningly funny, too, and drier than she would have expected. 

Chekov and Uhura were also surprising: Uhura, a quiet Communications officer who preferred calm silence to chattiness, and Chekov, who’s sheer brilliance was hidden behind a cheerful and enthusiastic veneer. 

With Thellan providing support for New Vulcan, Christine had resolved herself of having to deal with this alone. She didn’t foresee this help, or their camaraderie. She was so grateful for their help, that her words of thanks were caught in her throat.

Embarrassingly, the doctor’s eyes stung at that and her face felt blotchy and red. Christine swiped at her cheeks to unsuccessfully hide a few tears that escaped the corners of her eyes. 

_How mortifying._

Sulu reached over to squeeze her shoulder, and Uhura covered Christine’s hand with one of her own. A watery, frantic laugh bubbled out of the doctor’s chest. 

“Christine, _please_ , you hardly have to be that formal with me, especially not as guests in this house.”

“Dinner is served, moi druz'ya.” Chekov exclaimed and rushed four bowls over to the table, nearly hitting the edge of the counter and spilling the stew in his haste.

“Careful, Chekov!” Uhura and Chapel called out in unison, while Sulu moved to take the bowls from the Ensign. 

The teenager rolled his eyes at their concern. Christine saw the fierce side-eye that Uhura gave and Sulu’s snort in response.

For the first time in years, despite it all, Christine Chapel did not feel alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed, and my first fic.
> 
> After rewatching the original 2009 Star Trek during a quarantine nostalgia fest, I realized that CHRISTINE CHAPEL was on the Enterprise during Nero’s attack on Vulcan. She was there, and other than a quick name drop early on in the 2009 reboot and during Into Darkness, she was never shown or mentioned outside of those two instances.
> 
> I can’t help but reimagine what a current reboot of Christine Chapel would compare to her iteration in the original episodes. She was a badass bitch and deserved the airtime.
> 
> And so this fic has lived in my head rent free. Also, Chapel is a doctor, as she was by the end of her storyline, because we can appreciate upending the TOS era misogyny.
> 
> With love,  
> LB
> 
> Title comes from T.S. Elliot:
> 
> “O voyagers, O seamen,  
> You who came to port, and you whose bodies  
> Will suffer the trial and judgement of the sea,  
> Or whatever event, this is your real destination.'  
> So Krishna, as when he admonished Arjuna  
> On the field of battle.  
> Not fare well,  
> But fare forward, voyagers.”


End file.
